


phosphenes

by wyverning



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Banter, Begging, Foreplay, Humor, M/M, Mixed POV, Modern magic AU, Romance, Sensory Deprivation, apothecary owner damen, flirting disguised as flinging insults, magical bookstore owner laurent, unveiling black magic plots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2019-10-14 09:54:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17506400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyverning/pseuds/wyverning
Summary: There’s silence for all of three seconds, before the man who had entered says,  “Your business is an unmitigated disaster.”Damen’s head snaps up at that, affronted at the blatant insult. What meets his glare is nothing less than the most handsome man he’s ever seen, all golden-blond hair and high cheekbones. His eyes are so startlingly blue that theyhaveto be treated with some sort of charm.“Uh,” Damen says intelligently, caught between his newest visitor’s beautiful features and his scathing remark. “Welcome to Akielos?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hmmm i don't really have an explanation for this, sorry not sorry

The wards set around the apothecary’s foundations are so close to sentient that Damen oftentimes forgets that they really _aren’t._ They tend to evaluate everyone who steps foot through the threshold, making note of every new client’s magical signature as well as assigning a unique designation that allows Damen to differentiate between them.

As the shop’s owner, the wards communicate solely with Damen, and he’s grown used to their neverending supply of quirks.

It’s a quiet day at Akielos Apothecary, and Damen occupies himself with re-checking the expiration dates of some of their less common stock. Their general stock gets purchased regularly enough that such scrutinization isn’t necessary, but there are always ingredients that stick around for longer. Damen prides himself in the quality and variety that Akielos offers, and so it’s no hardship to dispose of ingredients that are no longer as potent as they should be. He pulls a notepad out of his pocket to jot down the supplies that will need replenishing with Makedon’s distribution company.

A shiver runs through Damen’s body as the wards activate, magic singing along his nerves. It’s a more potent reaction than he’s used to, which means a new customer that the wards hadn’t previously recognized. He doesn’t bother to look up; even on a busier day, most clients tend to prefer their privacy, and anyway, someone will ask him for help if they truly need the assistance.

There’s silence for all of three seconds, before the man who had entered says,  “Your business is an unmitigated disaster.”

Damen’s head snaps up at that, affronted at the blatant insult. What meets his glare is nothing less than the most handsome man he’s ever seen, all golden-blond hair and high cheekbones. His eyes are so startlingly blue that they _have_ to be treated with some sort of charm.

“Uh,” Damen says intelligently, caught between his newest visitor’s beautiful features and his scathing remark. “Welcome to Akielos?”

The man seems intent on his warpath. “How is one supposed to find _anything_ in a mess like this? You can’t shelve crow eyes alongside ginger root, the preservative will dry the herb out—”

“We shelve ingredients based on the market’s most common potions, so they’re within easy reach of each other—”

“Idiotic,” the man insists. “A completely baseless system of organization.”

Damen flushes against his own will. “You don’t have to shop here,” he says hotly. “Nothing’s stopping you from taking your insults down the street.” Marlas Surplus doesn’t have the highest quality ingredients, but maybe their organizational system won’t offend this man’s elitism.

For the first time, the man stops his tirade and looks at Damen. He seems displeased, though Damen’s unsure if it’s at his words or his apparently appalling workplace.

He attempts to salvage the situation — it’s not like he really _needs_ his business, given the fact that Akielos is one of the busiest supply shops in the area, but he really does try his best to be a consummate professional. “Maybe I can help you with whatever you’re looking for?”

The blond scrutinizes him for a moment, and Damen very pointedly does not do the same. Consummate professional. “I require your reserves of phoenix ash.”

“Phoenix ashes are a heavily-regulated spell ingredient,” Damen informs him, at risk of being hexed simply for daring to abide by Artes’ laws. “Where’s your prescription?”

“Prescription.” The statement falls flat.

“Ye-es,” Damen says, drawing out the word. “You know, Council-sanctioned approval for restricted ingredients? Usually in the form of an enchanted, sealed paper that displays how much you’re allowed to receive?”

“A place like this… requires prescriptions.”

The wards tingle at the base of Damen’s skull, almost like they’re — _laughing_ at him. What the hell.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Damen says finally, resigned. No amount of gorgeous blond that happens to be exactly his type is going to outweigh the fact that his shop has now been accused of illegal dealings. “Akielos is and has always been an on-board establishment, and as its owner, I don’t appreciate what you’re implying here.”

The blond obviously disagrees, if the look on his face is anything to go by. How he expected to walk in, insult everything he laid eyes upon, and then acquire rare spell ingredients is beyond Damen. He turns on his heel and departs without another word, though, lips pinched tight with dissatisfaction.

Good. He’s lucky Damen didn’t report him to the authorities.

When the man leaves, the wards purr something inexplicable into Damen’s mind. They don’t seem nearly as displeased as he himself is, which is strange given the man’s instantaneous hostility.

 

* * *

 

Damen spends the rest of the afternoon continuing his purge of expired ingredients, occupying himself with the repetitive motions of checking too-small dates printed on the bottom of storage vials.

Maybe he’ll commission Nikandros for a sight-revitalization potion, if the constant squinting he’s doing is anything to go by. Time passes quickly with his preoccupation, and it isn't until the sun starts to set that Damen realizes he'll be off work any minute now.

Right on cue, warmth settles in Damen’s gut as the wards re-activate, and the familiarity never fails to soothe him, even if a quick glance at the clock informs him that it's a few minutes behind schedule.

“You’re ten minutes late,” Damen says lightly as his brother steps into the shop, though he’s come to expect it. Since their father had officially granted the property’s deed to Damen rather than Kastor, his brother’s taken to these small, insignificant rebellions. It will pass, as things between them always do, but that doesn’t make it any less annoying.

“Sorry,” Kastor says, matching Damen’s tone and showing that he isn’t sorry at all. “Jokaste kept me occupied with one of her more… intriguing concoctions, and I didn’t notice the time.”

Ah, he’s in one of _those_ moods.

“Enjoy the closing shift,” Damen says with a pasted-on smile, because he’s only human. Mentions of his ex are still a sore subject, especially coming from Kastor. He wants to believe that the tense atmosphere between them has faded over the years, but then his brother insists on rubbing things like this in his face…

Damen pauses at the entrance when he remembers something. “Oh,” he says, making sure to catch Kastor’s attention before he heads out. “Got a bulk order in from a coven in Vask. They have some sort of demon problem that requires vanquishing. Ingredient list is on the counter.”

“Sure, sure,” Kastor responds with a wave of his hand. “I’ll have it ready for shipping by tomorrow morning.”

“Appreciate it.”

 

* * *

 

Distance from Akielos helps dull the strength of his wards, though Damen is still notified of his client’s comings and goings even as he approaches his apartment. It’s a modest brownstone, accented by Damen’s magical signature as vines slither up the brick, and he loves it.

Lykaios meows loudly as he opens the door, obviously hungry for her dinner. She’s a gorgeous familiar, with silky cream-colored fur and too-intelligent eyes. Damen quickly sets to opening a can of wet food and spooning it into her dish.

He finds his mind drifting back to the uppity blond who’d stormed the apothecary earlier. He’d seemed absolutely convinced that he would get his way, ordering Damen around and acquiring ingredients that are rare — and coveted — enough to be locked behind a ward that only recognizes Damen and Kastor's signatures. What could he have even needed phoenix ash _for_? Almost nobody asks for it anymore, with the de-aging potion market monopolized by the Regency. Corporate magic always puts a bad taste in Damen’s mouth, but mass-production seems to be more and more popular, these days, and the regulation system for those potions is even stricter than those who wish to brew independently.

Maybe it was some sort of test? Damen wouldn't put it past the blond to be some sort of asshole-ish inspector, trying valiantly (and rudely) to bust Damen's business.

He'd seemed genuinely upset at Damen's words, though...

Hm. It's an issue for another night. 

Damen makes himself a strong drink, thinks better of it and pours the alcohol down the sink, and then cracks open a faintly-glowing vial of sleep draught.

It’s a quiet night in to mirror the easiness of the work day, but it’s the middle of the week. He’ll make up for it over the weekend, maybe wrangle Nik and Pallas into storming downtown and hitting the bars.

His familiar purrs against his side as he settles into bed, eyelids already drooping from the potion’s effects.

 

* * *

 

In hindsight, he _really_ should have chosen the alcohol.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A familiar face looks up as he enters, sharp sapphire eyes appraising him from behind the pages of a thick tome. The blond who’d stormed into Akielos a few weeks prior stares at him, wire-framed glasses perched on his nose and his hair pulled back into a low bun at the nape of his neck.
> 
> “You,” Damen says, his tone accusatory. He doesn’t even really know what he’s trying to say: the word just burst forth unexpectedly. His evaluation of Vere as a business shifts instantly into palpable disdain.
> 
> “Me,” the blond responds, amused.

The numbers don’t match up. Damen groans in frustration even as the pounding in his head grows more prominent, but even his moment of audible weakness does not reveal a solution to the problem staring back at him. He  _knows_ for a fact that their profit margins should be higher based on the recent shipments out to Vask that Kastor and he had put together, but the inked numbers spanning across the page of the apothecary’s enchanted record book don’t reflect his certainty.

“Erasmus,” Damen calls out into the shop, trying to keep his voice even. No sense taking his anger out on one of his employees, even if this sort of business is truly upsetting. “Could you come here for a sec?”

Akielos’ newest employee heads toward the counter immediately, and Damen taps at the most recent transactions recorded on the page. “Do you remember selling dried nettle and pixie dust on your last shift?”

“The pixie dust was yesterday, but I think Kastor rung up the nettle? I don’t remember that one.”

At least the book’s still tracking transactions, even if the prices aren’t calculating properly. He has no idea how to even adjust the spells so that they _will_ function correctly, and his head aches. “This isn’t my area of expertise,” he mutters aloud, staring down at the book as though it will miraculously solve its own accounting errors.

“Maybe the magic’s worn out?” Erasmus suggests, chewing at his thumbnail thoughtfully.

It’s not a bad suggestion; older books tend to run out of reserves after too long left unattended by an enchanter, and this manifesto has been around since before Damen’s father had retired.

That doesn’t make it any less annoying that their profits aren’t lining up, though.

Damen’s headache threatens to worsen. “We’ll need a new one, then,” he sighs, resigned. Enchanted books are incredibly expensive due to the amount of intricate spellwork that goes into making one. They can’t be manufactured, and Damen’s pockets are going to take the hit of a new book on top of the profit gap that their current one had created.

Erasmus perks up at that. “Oh! Kallias mentioned this new store that opened up a few blocks over that might have some in stock.” He offers directions to the bookstore, some place named Vere that’s run by a pair of brothers, and Damen can’t help but be endeared immediately. It’s the same reputation that Damen hopes Akielos will retain when Kastor and he mend their relationship.

He heads over after his shift, enjoying the way the sun warms his skin as he meanders down the sidewalk. Vere is a cozy-looking shop, dark wood paneling framing wide windows that are appealingly inviting. Charmed candlelight glows from inside the glass, casting everything within the store in a friendly yellow glow.

Damen steps inside and is immediately hit with the scent of warm spices and old books. For a newly established bookstore, the place certainly encapsulates the aura of a well-worn presence.

A familiar face looks up as he enters, sharp sapphire eyes appraising him from behind the pages of a thick tome. The blond who’d stormed into Akielos a few weeks prior stares at him, wire-framed glasses perched on his nose and his hair pulled back into a low bun at the nape of his neck.

“You,” Damen says, his tone accusatory. He doesn’t even really know what he’s trying to say: the word just burst forth unexpectedly. His evaluation of Vere as a business shifts instantly into palpable disdain.

“Me,” the blond responds, amused. He sets the book aside, conjuring a bookmark with a wave of his hand that settles between the pages. It’s a simple enough spell to perform, yet still an admirable feat considering he’d done it wordlessly and without any visible effort.

Damen won’t let himself get distracted, though. “What are you doing here?”

A smirk meets his words. “Working? I thought that was clear.” He waves a hand about the place, as though it will explain everything. “Welcome to Vere’s Mystical Tomes.”

Now that Damen’s looking, he can see a glittering nametag pinned to the blond’s intricate shirt that reads, _Laurent._

The name suits him: elevated and pompous.

“Alright,” Damen says, as though placated. He spins on his heel abruptly. “Have a wonderful day, Laurent of Vere’s Mystical Tomes.”

He has absolutely no intention of bringing any sort of business to a man who would accuse Akielos of illegal dealings, but Laurent hums thoughtfully and the windowed door that Damen had walked through snaps shut, effectively interrupting his exit.

“You’d be a fool to leave without what you came here for,” Laurent says lightly. There’s no audible threat in his words, but Damen’s already had an irritating day, and to have a door slam in his face almost breaks the thin thread keeping his temper in check.

“I’d be a bigger fool to willingly give money to someone who believes I’m immoral,” he says, eyeing the door and debating on whether it’ll be worth it to risk breaking the glass as he slams it behind him. He decides against it, given the fact that he's already somehow lost money today without even doing a thing, and glares at the man. Using magic to lock potential customers in your store is, at the very least, unprofessional, and he makes sure to convey his disapproval through facial expressions.

Laurent remains unimpressed, and glances pointedly at Damen’s hands. “There’s enchanting dust still on your hands, which means you were handling a book until just recently. And knowing that your place of employment lacks any worthwhile tomes, it’s almost certainly something relating to your finances. Bookkeeping requires complicated spellwork, and you won’t find anything that will suit your needs out there.”

Damen’s torn between wanting to punch the man and compliment his observational skills.

“Laurent,” a voice says distantly from behind one of the many bookshelves populating the shop. “Are you harassing one of our customers?”

“Of course not,” Laurent replies. “That would be bad for business.”

A broad-shouldered man with curled hair just a few shades darker than Laurent’s own moves into view. “I’m sorry for his bluntness,” he says with a grin. “Though I couldn’t help but overhear. We do have a great selection of enchanted books, though. I don’t keep him around for his customer service skills, but he’s a _great_ caster.”

Laurent is arrogant enough that Damen believes him, honestly. It’s almost entirely why he allows the man — Auguste, Damen learns as he offers his own name in return — to direct him to a section dedicated to magic-assisted professional books.

As he’s browsing the different options and price levels, a pale hand shoots out and pulls a maroon-bound book away from the shelf. “This one,” Laurent says decisively. “The paper itself is charmed to be resistant to any magical tampering, and it’s one of my finer enchanting jobs.”

“Thank you,” Damen says, surprised. It’s genuine assistance if he’s ever seen it, even if Laurent’s words aren't directly related to Damen’s problem with his current recordkeeper, and Auguste rings him up for the book with another smile.

Maybe Vere isn’t _so_ terrible.

 

* * *

 

The record book that Damen purchased from Vere is incredible, and it’s _almost_ impressive enough for Damen to rescind most of the nasty comments he’d made about Laurent in his head when faced directly with the man’s personality.

It tallies up numbers automatically, connected to their register through an efficient binding spell that had only taken Damen a handful of minutes to set up, and it hardly requires any human interference. The spellwork is impeccable, just as Auguste had proclaimed. He hates to admit it, but Laurent had been right. There’s no way he would have found something this high quality outside of Vere’s walls.

The quality of Vere’s stock is the _only_ reason he returns a few days later, in search of a popular spellbook that recently hit the shelves. Akielos strives to always keep common materials in stock, and it’s beneficial to see what’s rising in popularity to make sure they keep up with the demand of specific supplies.

Auguste’s behind the counter, ringing up customers. He offers a quick wave in Damen’s direction before returning to the older woman checking out a stack of books almost as tall as herself, and Damen ducks behind one of the taller shelves.

He’s resolutely _not_ disappointed that Laurent does not seem to be working. Laurent’s act of kindness (and Damen is hesitant to call it _kindness,_ given the fact that he’d been bragging about his own ability at the time…) isn’t enough to forgive him entirely, but… well, he’d been hoping to offer a quick word of gratitude for how smoothly the book he’d picked out for Damen has been assisting him.

Damen hangs around the stacks of shelves for far too long, even after finding the spellbook he’d been searching for, and finally decides that waiting around for Laurent is a lost cause.

On his way out, the very man in question approaches, a paper cup in one hand and a plastic bag of takeaway in the other. Damen can’t help but grimace in distaste as he eyes the logo on the cup Laurent’s holding.

“I thought your recommendation for a record book was enough to redeem you,” Damen drawls, “but I see now that I was wrong. Anyone who drinks Chelaut’s coffee is a lost cause.”

Laurent raises an eyebrow at him, looking entirely unaffected by Damen’s words. “Is that so?”

Never let it be said that Damen doesn’t offer good advice, even to people he’s meant to hate. “Do yourself a favor and stop at Kingsmeet next time. It’s a bit out of your way, but they make the best coffee I’ve ever had, and do all sorts of booster potions for a decent price. You’ll never go back to Chelaut’s swill, I promise.”

“Not right now,” Laurent says.

“Of course not,” Damen replies slowly. _Obviously._ Laurent clearly already purchased a fresh cup; there’s no reason for him to visit another coffee shop when he's already got some, even if calling Chelaut's awful drinks  _coffee_ is a stretch.

“Tomorrow, then. What time?”

Why should that matter to _Damen?_ “Whenever you choose to go?”

Laurent looks at him like he’s an idiot. “When will _you_ be there?”

Oh. _Oh._ Is Laurent asking him out on a date? Is Damen so out of touch that he can’t even tell when someone is asking him out on a date anymore? Gods, how embarrassing.

“I’m free around noon,” he says, without even thinking about whether or not he _wants_ to go on a date with Laurent, who is perfectly gorgeous and yet inspires feelings of homicide the moment he opens his mouth.

A pregnant moment of silence passes before Laurent tips his paper cup toward Damen in acknowledgment and vanishes inside Vere.

Damen walks back toward Akielos dazed and not entirely sure what just happened.

 

* * *

 

He still goes to Kingsmeet the next afternoon, though.

There’s something to be said about the fact that Damen shows up roughly half an hour before their agreed-upon meeting time, but Nik’s working and he entertains himself by rating his best friend’s espresso pulls as he munches on a free croissant that Pallas had slipped him before Nik could protest.

It’s possible that he’s slightly biased about the coffee that Kingsmeet serves, but it really _is_ delicious, and when Laurent shows up a few minutes before twelve, he’s determined to convert him.

“Not bad,” Laurent says after his first delicate sip of a latte that Nik had made while shooting suspicious glances at Damen. He'd ordered it with a calming booster that Damen knows for a fact is tasteless and has a satisfying, warming tinge of magic as it settles. While Damen doesn’t know much about the man sitting across from him, he  _has_ gleaned enough about his personality to know that’s likely high praise.

“Worth the trek, right?”

“It’ll do.”

It would appear that Laurent is not a man of many words, unless he's using them to verbally eviscerate whoever he's talking to.

He decides to just dive right in: this is only a first date, after all, and he’s been dying to know. “When you came into Akielos for the first time,” Damen says, “what was that all about?”

“There were rumors,” Laurent says after a moment. “As we had just opened Vere, I wanted to ensure that my brother and I hadn’t made a mistake about our business’s location.”

Rumors that Akielos distributed rare ingredients without prescriptions? Damen’s brow furrows.

“Don’t think too hard. I’ve been set to rights about that particular piece of misinformation, thanks to the apothecary’s brutish owner.”

Damen can’t help but smile at that, backhanded compliment though it is. Against better judgment, he finds himself forgiving Laurent's behavior. He'd be suspicious of a nearby business, too, if he'd heard terrible things about their dealings. It's unsettling for Damen to consider someone spreading lies about Akielos like that; Laurent appears content to drop the subject, though, and he'll have to glean more information from the cryptic mention of  _rumors_ at some later date.

They settle into conversation after that, though to call it  _easy_ would be a lie. Laurent remains as sharp-tongued as ever, but instead of it being irritating, Damen finds himself captivated by the man's wit, even when it's at his own expense. Laurent had asked  _him_ out on a date, after all, and he allows himself to view the blond's barbs as the flirtatious remarks that they potentially are. Shifting his perspective teases out the simmering attraction he feels for Laurent, and once it fleetingly crosses his mind, it's impossible to do anything but think about it. Warmth suffuses his veins as he imagines kissing lips capable of spitting figurative venom, and he loses focus multiple times when Laurent goes on a tirade, imagining what the timbre of his voice might sound under more intimate circumstances.

Time slips away as they argue over the morality of using brewed luck potions during sporting events, and Damen has to physically restrain himself from running his fingers through Laurent's hair as strands fall around his face when he gets too vehemently passionate about the right of sentient animals to disallow harvesters from obtaining ingredients from them without explicit permission.

When Laurent finally walks away from Kingsmeet to meet his brother for dinner and Damen feels an immediate pang of loneliness, he knows he's in trouble.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You’re hopeless,_ Laurent’s reply stares back at him from his phone screen.
> 
> Because it’s the truth, Damen can’t help a wry smile. _You must have cast a spell on me when I wasn’t looking._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i lived, bitch

Damen wakes with an annoying hum of magic crawling beneath his skin. Even though he’s miles away from the apothecary, the distance does almost nothing to quell the near-constant buzz of the wards activating and re-activating with enough frequency to disrupt his sleep.

It’s meant to be his day off, too. 

He groans unceremoniously, slamming the closest pillow back over his head. His bed is warm and comfortable, and it’s just his luck that something big would happen on a day where Kastor’s supposed to be running the shop. As soon as the thought crosses his mind, his phone goes off, and reluctantly Damen pulls the pillow off his face. His brother’s name lights up the screen, and Lykaios lets out a questioning mew from against his side as he shifts across the bed to grab it from the nightstand.

“What is it?” he grumbles in greeting. There’s an awful sense of foreboding overtaking Damen, and he resigns himself to cancelling the lunch date he’d planned with Laurent for later. Clearly, Kastor’s going to need him for something, if he’s calling.

“You need to come to the shop,” Kastor says, sounding harried. “Councilor Adrastus was found dead this morning. We’re swamped.”

Ah, _shit._

He’s out of bed before Kastor’s even finished speaking. “I’m on my way,” he manages before hanging up, rummaging around his dresser for a pair of jeans. There’s no time for a proper shower, but with Lykaios so close at hand, it’s almost no effort at all to close his eyes and command a cleansing spell to scrub his skin clean. His hair’s another matter, but he runs fingers through the tousled curls hurriedly to try and tame them. 

It’s pouring outside when he finally steps off his front step, and Damen curses under his breath before casting a frantic shielding spell. It’s mediocre at best, and doesn’t _truly_ keep him dry from the torrential downpour. He ends up far too damp for comfort by the time the shop comes into view, but damp is better than drenched.

Council members remain in their positions until they die, which makes changes in the status quo rare. When one does pass away, it causes a chain reaction of two schools: the first, a plethora of Memoriam spells cast around the capital, and the second a rush of mages desperately trying to prove themselves worthy of filling the sudden opening.

Akielos must be packed with people trying to buy the necessary ingredients to mourn the Councilman’s loss. Memoriam spells aren’t a legal requirement to cast on days such as these, but they’re a measure of respect, and it doesn’t get much more honorable than being a part of the High Council. 

Damen’s no expert on politics or the Council, but he does know enough to ensure that the Council continues to allow Akielos to sell limited ingredients. He scrapes his memory for a mental image of Adrastus: he’d been an older man, with no particular illnesses broadcasted to the public. Compared to some of the other Council members, he’d actually seemed somewhat spry in comparison. He wonders what could have happened as he marches down to the apothecary, steeling himself for the busy day.

As he approaches, one thing is abundantly clear. Kastor was right: the store is _swamped._  

He slips through the door in between two red-eyed customers, immediately joining Kastor at the front to ring up the long line of people with ingredients in-hand. Sweeping his gaze around the packed shop tells him that Erasmus and Kallias are both on the floor, doing their best to direct customers to the proper shelves. 

The rush keeps them busy for hours. At some point, Nik arrives with several steaming cups of coffee from Kingsmeet, and Damen downs his quickly while uttering profuse words of gratitude. Mixed in with the natural caffeine is some sort of rejuvenation potion, and Damen could just about kiss his best friend.

“Do you know what happened?” Damen asks when they _finally_ get a break. The shelves are a wreck, and he averts his gaze in an effort to think about anything other than the fact that it’s going to take forever to get the store back in order, even _with_ the assistance of magic.

“News says it was something to do with a fatal food allergy,” Kastor shrugs. “They don’t suspect foul play. I guess these things just happen.”

He’s not particularly attached to any members of the Council, but the explanation still draws a wince of sympathy from Damen. His family must be in shock; losing someone in a freak accident is just tragic. 

“Don’t look so glum,” Kastor says, shoulder-checking him. “It’s good for business!”

“Someone died, Kastor. Don’t be insensitive.”

“Oh, come on. You know how the application process works. There will be tons of candidates coming in over the weekend buying supplies to try and audition for the spot.”

There’s something off about Kastor’s tone. “You’re not going to apply, are you?”

A snort is reaction enough to his words, but Kastor accompanies it with an amused, “I have better things to focus my energy on than arguing with old men about regulating magic in Artes.”

His words are a relief. Becoming a member of the Council grants a wide array of power to those lucky enough to be indoctrinated, but massive responsibility comes with it, and as much as Damen cares about his brother, he’s honest enough about it to know that Kastor would _not_ make a good Councilman. 

A handful of customers walk in then, cutting off their conversation. Damen throws himself into his work, forcing himself not to dwell on how he’d love to hear what Laurent has to say about all this business.

 

* * *

 

_I miss you._

It’s a stupid text to send, Damen knows. It’s only been a few days since he’s seen Laurent, and they haven’t even properly discussed anything like _dating_ , but the sentiment remains: Damen misses him. Their schedules haven’t matched up again since their cancelled date, and Damen’s not going to lie to himself (or Laurent, judging by what he's typed out) about how he feels.

Seventeen agonizing minutes pass before there’s any sort of response. Damen pretends — and fails horribly — that he’s not overeager to see what Laurent has replied, though he gives himself away when he nearly fumbles the phone right out of his grasp once it buzzes with a response.

 _You’re hopeless,_ Laurent’s reply stares back at him from his phone screen.

Because it’s the truth, Damen can’t help a wry smile. _You must have cast a spell on me when I wasn’t looking._

 _Ah,_ Laurent responds. _I’ve been caught. Maybe you aren’t as dumb as you look._

Out of context, the text seems insulting, even cruel. But Damen can clearly imagine Laurent saying it, a sarcastic lilt to his words and a challenging glint in his eyes. This is as good as flirting, and Damen settles in for the back-and-forth. He still misses Laurent, and doesn’t know when they’ll next cross paths, but their conversation does ease some of the ache Damen’s feeling.

He taps out a response quickly. _Release me from your wicked grasp at once, you fiend._

It soothes something within him to get a text back instantly; it means Laurent has poured his full attention into their conversation.

_But then who will do all of my vile bidding?_

_Oh,_ Damen sends, adding a sad emoji to appear crestfallen. _You’re only using me? I thought we had something special…_

Seconds turn to minutes without Laurent responding again. Damen tries not to feel disappointed, and fails miserably, but he knows it’s nothing personal. They’re both adults with busy lives, and just because Damen’s having a quiet night at home certainly doesn’t mean Laurent is doing the same.

He falls asleep with his phone in hand, anyway, waiting for the buzz of a new text.

 

* * *

 

Restocking after the Councilor’s death is a time-consuming process, and Damen accepts the challenge of it all with an open mind. The store’s a mess, with entire sections sold out and ingredients picked up and left in the wrong spots. 

He takes the opportunity to do a little bit of reorganizing, thinking of how pleased Laurent will be when he sees ingredients shelved alphabetically. Damen enlists the help of Erasmus and Kallias to reorganize the entirety of the shop, which is a project that will take days to complete. 

Lykaios accompanies him to Akielos on the day he decides to commit to the reorganization. She’s pleased to be around the wards, purring contentedly as she explores while catalogues inventory. His familiar spends the next week around the shop, amplifying his magic as he undergoes the impromptu project. She’s an instant favorite with customers, and Damen heavily considers bringing her along on a more regular basis. She’s wickedly smart, winding her way around customer’s legs as they consider their ingredient lists and Akielos’ wares, and her demeanor has likely won him a few new regulars.

Damen feels Laurent’s absence keenly, although his existence seems to diffuse through Damen’s life regardless of whether or not he’s physically present. He catches Auguste chatting with Nik one day at Kingsmeet when he drops by for a quick pre-shift breakfast, and a potted plant appears on Akielos’ front desk with tendrils that reach toward Damen whenever he smiles. 

There’s a sense of peace despite the business of his workplace, and Damen would be lying if he said he wasn't satisfied.

 

* * *

 

They see each other in bits and pieces — Damen stops by Vere when the store’s quiet and spends an hour buying Laurent’s favorite fictional novels while hearing him wax poetic about their worldbuilding and impeccable characterization, and Laurent manages to reschedule their lunch date at a Thai place whose employees recognize Laurent as soon as they walk in — and Damen falls. 

He’s been in love before, has slipped down this pathway with nothing but the confidence of an enamored fool more times than he can count, but Laurent slots into his life in such an organic way that it feels different. A breath of fresh air that revitalizes not only Damen’s lungs, but the very cells that make up his entire being. 

His sense of humor never leaves Damen bored, even when it’s at his own expense, and uncovering the colder bits of Laurent to reveal a more thoughtful, clever interior are a worthwhile challenge. 

Things are good.

 

* * *

 

Akielos is approximately one minute away from closing for the night when the wards tingle enough for goosebumps to raise on Damen’s forearms. Laurent’s signature has become a comforting one as of late, a far cry from the startling effect he’d had on both Damen and his casted magic alike when he’d first stepped into the apothecary.

“Hey there, stranger,” Damen says, smiling wildly as Laurent walks into view.

He’s currently seated on the floor, carefully collecting the web of an orb-weaver that resides within Akielos. His view of Laurent from below is a new one, but just as pleasant as when they meet eye-to-eye. He looks taller and more regal like this, golden-haired flyaways framing his face. Any other customer would have narrowed their eyes in disgust and asked what in the hell Damen was doing, but Laurent’s not like any other customer. His eyes light up as he spots the golden-yellow spider seated high upon her web.

“She respects you,” he says, definitively.

Damen turns his attention back toward her web. The silky threads seem to glimmer as he harvests them, using delicate tweezers to safely place them within the jar resting next to him. “She gets a safe place to live with no food competition out of it,” he says, finally rolling back on his heels. “And I get free ingredients. It’s a good coexistence.”

“Doesn’t she scare your customers?”

“There are plenty of places she hides when it gets busy,” he says, pointing at the various nooks and crannies within the shelves. “I don’t typically see her out unless we’re closed.”

Getting to his feet, Damen adds, “But I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk about spiders.” He takes a step forward, intending to draw Laurent closer for a quick kiss. Fleeting displays of affection have grown more comfortable between them as of late, and Damen defaults to physical proximity as he leans into Laurent’s space.

“Presumptive of you,” Laurent says archly, stepping back until he’s just out of Damen’s grasp. “Why else would I come into this run-down disaster of an apothecary? Your only redeeming quality is humanely-harvested materials.”

Something heated diffuses through Damen’s body at the clear challenge. Two can play at this game.

“My deepest apologies,” he says, sounding entirely unrepentant. “How can I help you on this fine evening?” 

Laurent’s expecting him to approach him once again, but Damen knows better than to adhere to his expectations. He falls back a step, gesturing to the shelves. “What kind of ingredients are you looking for in this run-down disaster of an apothecary?”

Laurent hums in response. “Something complicated. I won’t bore you with the details.” 

He meets Damen’s gaze head-on before swiping a hand across a nearby shelf. Glass jars crash to the floor, breaking into pieces. Damen startles at the sound of shattered glass, a disbelieving noise pealing its way out of his throat. Laurent plays _dirty._

“Oh, no,” he says flatly. “I’m so sorry.”

Damen presses his lips into a thin line, hoping the action makes him appear cross instead of about to burst with laughter. “You should be,” he says, very seriously. “Now you’ll have to pay for the damages you’ve caused.”

There’s a careless flick of blond tresses over his shoulder as Laurent nonchalantly drawls, “It couldn’t have been worth _that_ much.”

Damen moves: he’ll never admit it, but the thrill that runs through him is leagues more satisfying than the easy victory of greeting Laurent would’ve otherwise been. Akielos is a smaller store than even Vere is: there aren’t very many places to hide, and Damen has Laurent caught at a disadvantage. He’s much more familiar with the layout of the shelves and displays, and even Laurent’s sharp eyes roving over the space won’t be enough to grant him victory.

It’s easy work to weave between two shelves -- there’s a demonstration table set up for Kallias to model and sample ingredients on busier days, and if Laurent heads in its direction, he'll head toward the dead end of a corner shelf of newly-alphabetized ingredients. He’s not, however, expecting Laurent to _duck_ beneath his reach and bolt toward the entrance to the back room. Cornering himself within its walls is a risky move, and Damen prowls toward him with intent, moving swiftly enough to cage Laurent against the closed door with his arms.

“I wouldn’t expect someone with no eye for quality to know the true value of materials,” he says, too softly for the insult of his words to take root. “I’m afraid the cost is rather high.”

Laurent frowns, a further attempt at their game, but his eyes sparkle with mirth. He tilts his chin brazenly, opening his mouth to undoubtedly argue the point, but Damen’s done with playing. He’s got Laurent caught, and is feeling rather done with talking.

Finally capturing Laurent’s lips is a grand victory. Damen savors the moment, heart pulsing a frantic tattoo against his ribcage as Laurent responds, not like a caged animal, but a feral, untamed beast who has been let loose upon the world. The kiss quickly spirals out of control; between heartbeats, Laurent surges forward, claiming Damen for all he’s worth.

They nearly fall into the back room when Laurent fumbles behind him for the doorknob, and Damen guides him onto the couch Kastor had purchased ages ago for them to relax on while taking breaks. He feels giddy, like an overly hormonal teenager shirking on his work, as he kisses Laurent in the back room of his shop. Laurent shows no indication of slowing down, and he’s irresistible like this, pliant and as hungry as Damen seems to be.

“Can I?” Damen asks, one hand cupped around the back of Laurent’s neck and the other hovering over the mess of complicated laces that make up the bindings of his rather fashionable (and probably overly expensive) shirt.

Laurent stares back at him, hair disastrously out of sorts and lips reddened and swollen with the pressure of Damen’s own. His cheeks are red, either with exertion or embarrassment, or both. “Damen,” he says slowly, as though Damen is a complete idiot. “Touch me.”

Damen allows himself one momentous instant of regret: having Laurent beneath him like this is something he’s been dreaming about for _weeks,_ but doing so in the back room of Akielos feels almost… wrong. Laurent deserves the finest sheets and hours of pleasure while Damen takes him apart, one kiss and one brushing touch at a time.

But this will do, too.

“Was this your plan, then?” Damen asks against the sharp curve of Laurent’s jaw as he tackles the laces. “Rile me up and then desecrate my store?”

“It hardly seems like you’re complaining.”

Damen nips at the skin available to him before soothing at the hurt with his tongue. It sends a shiver through Laurent, and derails his mind entirely from the task at hand.

“Hurry _up_ ,” Laurent says, voice threatening a whine. 

It’s not _Damen’s_ fault the laces get tangled so easily, but he somehow gets them loose enough to yank the cloth over Laurent’s head. The smooth expanse of skin revealed to him is temptation at its finest, and Damen once again laments the missed opportunity to spend countless hours mapping out every curve with his fingers and mouth.

From underneath him, Laurent clicks his tongue against his teeth impatiently. “Too distractible,” he says, and moves to press a few fingers against Damen’s temple. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course,” he replies helplessly.

His ease with magic never fails to impress Damen, and as he wordlessly conjures a length of cloth, Damen’s awe mingles with his arousal. He swallows thickly, nodding as Laurent brings both hands to the curls atop Damen’s head in wordless question.

The blindfold is soft against the bridge of his nose, his eyelashes brushing against the fabric as it settles over his vision. It does its job impeccably, removing Damen’s sight like it was never there to begin with, and his blood thrums with anticipation.

“Laurent,” Damen pleads, lost already. “Please.”

“You’ll have to be more specific.” A teasing hand presses against his chest, fingernails trailing gently — too gently — over his nipples and across his ribcage.

“Anything you want. I’m yours.”

The hand retreats, and Damen mourns its loss. His skin is burning up as he anticipates where Laurent’s next touch will be, and he barely resists the urge to blindly reach for it. When they next approach, it’s to press Damen’s shoulders down into the couch until he’s lying on it properly. The brushing of what must be Laurent’s knees as they straddle his hips prompts Damen to curse softly.

Without his brain’s permission, Damen’s hands fly to the curves of Laurent’s hips. He’s stunned to find bare skin underneath his palms, rather than the coarse denim he’d _seen_ Laurent in mere moments before his sight was taken from him—

He gasps out, “Did you really just—” but is interrupted when Laurent fully slots himself against Damen’s own hips. It applies _just_ the right pressure to Damen’s clothed length, and whatever else he’d planned to say about Laurent’s improper use of magic falls away into nothing other than wordless desire at the feeling of Laurent's assed pressed so closely against him.

“You were too slow,” he responds lightly, words punctuated by a breathy noise that indicates he’s not as unaffected as he’d like to pretend.

It’s too much to resist: Laurent’s panting in his _lap,_ and Damen can’t even see it to enjoy the gorgeous vision it must be. He stops pulling his punches, withdrawing the vial of oil he’d swiped from a shelf during their chase and grappling blindly with the stopper until it spills slick liquid across his fingers.

He can feel Laurent watching him even if he can’t see it. “There are spells for that, you know.”

“Doesn’t hurt to do things the old-fashioned way, either,” he grins, pulling Laurent closer and using Laurent’s grounding presence to guide his fingers to where they need to be.

With the oil easing his way, it’s easy to slide a finger into Laurent, whose only complaint is a bitten-off gasp as he rocks against Damen’s hand. He takes his time with it, part of him smug as all hell as Laurent mutters about Damen’s inability to read the room, and relishes the feeling of the man above him positively falling to pieces.

Damen doesn’t need vision to know when he’s found Laurent’s prostate: the blond tenses, every ounce of him seemingly poised to jump, before he keens, bending over to mouth at the thin skin of Damen’s collarbone. He sucks, _hard,_ and Damen groans a response, hoping it leaves a mark. He goads Laurent, fucking into him more thoroughly with his fingers, despite the fact that it’s a pale imitation for what's to come. Nevertheless, it does its job of riling Laurent up. Teeth sink into his shoulder, stinging hard enough that Damen’s positive blood has been drawn, but the pain sends a hot fire arcing through his veins. He curses, needing to be inside Laurent more than any other desire that’s ever struck him, and withdraws his fingers with intent.

“No,” Laurent says, and Damen stills at the word. He’d said _anything,_ and he’d meant it. “Let me.”

His words are spoken like a command, and Damen acquiesces immediately, hands falling away from his own pants. 

Laurent is nimble as he unfastens Damen’s trousers, and it’s only because he’s paying very, _very_ close attention to the proceedings that he hear’s Laurent’s soft intake of breath when his cock is finally pulled free from its confines. The darkness provides an intensified focus of his other senses, and Laurent’s fingertips suddenly brushing along the length of his cock startle Damen into a moan. It’s a heady, dizzying feeling, and Damen craves more.

“This is,” Laurent says. His pause is significant. “A lot.”

A laugh bubbles up in Damen’s chest. “Is this another complaint about why I took my time?”

A sharp jolt radiates from his arm, and Damen realizes that Laurent has  _pinched_  him. It’s ridiculous: Laurent’s got loose fingers around his dick, his thighs pressed against Damen’s own body, and he can tell that Laurent is resolutely _not_ complaining. He’s positive he’s grinning like a wolf.

It falls away instantly, though, as Laurent shifts backward, just a bit, and he can’t help the, “Oh,” as his breath is punched out of him when Laurent slowly lowers himself onto Damen’s cock. When he pauses, Damen’s caught between gratefulness and frustration, too overwhelmed by the sensation to do much but grit his teeth as they both hang in the breathless in-between of _not enough_ and _too much._

“You,” Laurent says in response to Damen’s unasked question, voice strained, “require getting used to.”

He wants — many things. To apologize for the uncomfortable stretch that Laurent’s undoubtedly feeling, to preen with the knowledge that Laurent’s panting because of _him_ , to jerk his hips into the unbearable heat surrounding him. He does none of these, because while he’s still mulling over how surreal it is that Laurent  _wants_ this and is  _here_ with him, Laurent bottoms out, taking his cock into him. Damen's attention narrows to a pinprick: nothing else in the world matters but this.

He babbles something to Laurent, muddled brain just barely managing to parse out the stumbling praises and _please, Gods,_ that trickle out of his punch-drunk mouth. And when the rhythm picks up, when they both find a hard pace that sends jolts of oversensitive pleasure racing through their veins, taking them both apart at the seams, Damen knows he’s gone.

Climax comes too quickly and still not soon enough, a paradoxical miracle that has Damen seeing white and Laurent’s breath hitching on a half-sob as he spills across Damen’s stomach. He’s physically blind but has never felt so seen, limbs entangled with Laurent’s own as they wind down, finding a quiet equilibrium against the cooling sweat on their bodies and their pounding heartbeats.

“Fuck,” Damen says finally, just to punctuate the air with the sound of the word. Laurent chuckles from on top of him, and Damen settles further into the couch in hazy, contented laziness. This is almost better than the sex: just him and Laurent, relaxing comfortably in the space they’ve created. Through cottoned ears, he hears Laurent murmur something about finding the ingredients for a cleaning charm within the shop, and Damen thinks he manages a grunt in response.

He must doze off at some point, because he wakes with blearily to darkness. The blindfold is still on, and the spot near his neck where Laurent had bitten him still vaguely aches. There’s a noise coming from behind him, and Damen assumes it’s just Laurent rustling around. Maybe redressing, after untangling his needlessly complicated shirtstrings.

It takes a ridiculous amount of effort to push himself into a sitting position with how fucked-out he feels. His hair is surely mussed from the fabric of the blindfold, but he pushes it up onto his forehead without a care. Luckily, the shop is dim in the nighttime, and regaining his vision isn’t any more difficult than blinking away the longstanding blurriness. He’d hoped to catch a glimpse of Laurent redressing, bending over and exposing his pert ass as he slips his pants back on, but he’s not readily visible. 

His attention is drawn to a clinking sound from the direction of the nook that houses the cash register and more exclusive ingredients. With a frown, Damen moves to his feet and approaches quietly, noting the way the supply closet’s door is cracked open.

He pushes it open more fully and Laurent looks back at him, a jar of iridescent unicorn’s blood caught between slim fingers that had been wrapped around Damen’s cock mere minutes ago. Whatever post-coital bliss Damen had been feeling vanishes instantaneously as his stomach plummets.

There’s no disguising his intentions, and Laurent stares back at him almost defiantly, lips pressed in a thin line.

“I hope it was worth it,” he says, voice far steadier than he feels. He leans a shoulder against the doorway to cover up the fact that he feels about a second away from collapsing. A tremor runs its way through his legs unsteadily. “Just… take whatever it is you came in here to steal and go.”

He doesn’t even care about the ingredients, really. There were a million ways that Laurent could’ve gotten into Damen’s restricted supply, and he’d chosen the one route that would hurt him the most. A few thousand dollars worth of lost product seems a small price to pay compared to the hurt settling firmly like barbed wire in his chest.

It hits him suddenly that the wards hadn’t even gone off as Laurent moved into the supply closet, which means that he’d taken precautions to avoid notifying Damen of this particular act of betrayal. The premeditation of it all staggers Damen, though he does his damndest not to let any of it show.

Too-blue eyes watch him carefully. Laurent gently sets the jar back on the shelf, so precisely that it doesn’t even disrupt the light layering of dust surrounding it. He doesn’t say a word, tearing his gaze away from Damen’s as he steps past the door’s threshold and out toward the entrance.

Damen doesn’t watch him leave, because his eyes are burning something fierce and Laurent doesn’t even deserve that much from him, really. This isn’t the first time he’s had to blacklist a customer, though.

He sets about modifying the wards as soon as they notify him of Laurent’s departure.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laurent has no time for regrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> summer vacation is so nice because i can finally relax and enjoy my hobbies, like writing a very angsty and isolated laurent! added an extra chapter for an epilogue; i really never intended this to be a long fic, so i'm surprised i've changed the chapter number so many times?? i hope you enjoy this! thank you so much for all of the lovely comments and kudos. (and shoutout to those of you who TOTALLY GUESSED HOW THIS CHAPTER WOULD GO, LMAO.)

Laurent has no time for regrets.

There’s too much at risk for him to waste even a spare moment on the implacable ache in his chest whenever he thinks of the betrayal stark upon Damen’s features, or how he’s been avoiding Auguste’s questions about the bruises beneath his eyes.

The ends justify the means. They have to.

“Funny story,” Auguste says as he enters the bookstore. Laurent’s curled up in a chair near the entrance, pretending to compile a list of ingredients he’ll need for a custom enchanting commission. The spell he’s been methodically crafting for the past month is a constant drain on his energy and magic, and it takes significant effort to stay alert and conscious. He can’t let Auguste think that something’s wrong, though, and he gestures lazily with a hand for his brother to continue.

“I go into Kingsmeet, right? Think nothing of it, because we are frequent and well-paying customers. And Nikandros is working, but here’s where it gets _really_ hilarious: he flat-out refuses to make the overly-sweet concoction that you pretend is coffee. Took my money for both of our drinks, made mine perfectly, and then just glared at me when I had the gall to ask about yours.”

“I’m not sure we share the same definition of _funny,_ ” Laurent says.

“What the hell was that about?” 

The ends justify the means. “Damianos and I are no longer… involved. I’d assume his best friend is resentful toward me as a result.”

“Oh, Laurent,” Auguste sighs, settling on the arm of Laurent’s chair. “Are you alright?”

He's struck with an outpouring of affection for his brother. Auguste's played no part in any of his schemes, is untouched by the corruption lingering within him. Laurent isn't sure which would hurt more: Auguste finding out what had happened while he'd left for university to hone and master his wild, unrestrained magic, or Auguste condemning him for what he's about to do.

Laurent says, “It will be fine,” because it has to be. He can’t afford to fail. 

It’s a minor inconvenience that the more he says it, the less he believes it.

 

* * *

 

There’s a message waiting for him when he finally drags himself to his room later that night. Everything is slightly blurred around the edges, exhaustion an ever-present companion these days, and the effort it takes not to collapse on his bed as soon as he arrives is nearly overwhelming.

It’s a mockery, more than anything. If he’d been younger, or anyone else, messages would have traveled through the proper channels. Laurent’s familiar should have been the one to directly deliver the communication, but of course that’s not an option now.

He can still feel his owl’s blood, sticky and thick over his fingers, fifteen years old and struggling to cope with the way her death carved an irreparable hole in his magic. It’s never truly healed, as such, though he’s not foolish enough to think it had ever been anything but intentional. 

Hence the magicked orb resting on the center of his bed, cloudy with its intended message. 

Laurent allows himself one sigh, a single exhalation of resignation as he picks it up and sends a pulse of magic into it.

“I’m bored,” Nicaise’s voice whines from the smoke curling out of the glass. “And my headaches have been getting worse. Your tonics aren’t working anymore, though I’m still surprised they did at all. I’ve convinced him to let you visit next week, so bring your Switch, okay? And something new to play. Seriously. You have the money to buy more than fucking Mario Kart."

It’s a reminder of all he’s fighting for. Laurent swallows thickly, ensuring that the smoke is fully dissipated before his magic lashes out, shattering the orb into countless shards.

 

* * *

 

He misses decent coffee. Chelaut’s brews truly _are_ mediocre at best compared to Kingsmeet’s, delivering only a fraction of the caffeine rush he needs to operate with the bulk of his magic so preoccupied. 

Showing his face at his — ex’s, he supposes — best friend’s coffee shop is definitely unacceptable, though. He begrudgingly sips his lukewarm bean water while he shops at Marlas Surplus, scowling at the shelved ingredients. They’re appallingly low quality; bulk harvests rarely produce the type that Laurent prefers for his own crafting.

He misses Akielos, too. Damen’s careful selection of ingredients never failed to meet his high standards, and his emphasis on humane harvesting of all creature by-products had been enough to gain his patronage despite everything else. 

It’s unfortunate that Kastor’s willingness to bypass Council laws for money or power or whatever it is that his uncle’s promised him had to interfere.

Laurent throws shaving cream into his shopping basket alongside a container of ground malachite and grits his teeth.

 

* * *

 

If he tries hard enough, Laurent can remember most of what’s been done to him. It makes him nauseous to recollect, his mind dredging up the rapid galloping of his heart as he scrambled to justify what was happening, _why_ it was happening. The sharp, hollowing taste of unicorn blood and rosemary intermixed with the curiously empty, blank aftermath. The bitter aftertaste of not knowing for certain.

There are still days missing, perhaps weeks. He’ll never get them back, but the absence of memory is perhaps as condemning as the memories he _does_ retain. Every piece that he’s slotted into this puzzle is worth it.

 

* * *

 

“Any progress in the case I should know about?”

Herode’s flinch is minute, but Laurent’s watching for it. They’re in a mundane cafe, notable for its delicious lunch foods crafted without the aid of magic. It's an ironic novelty for a Council member to be dining here. Herode's midday break has only just begun, according to Laurent's painstakingly detailed research, which means his timing is perfect.

“Council business is confidential,” he says, sounding far more confident than he looks. Laurent’s known him long enough to spot his tells: the way he brings a hand up to the frame of his glasses, and the tense line of his shoulders. “Your evidence has been taken into account, but binding magic prevents me from informing you of any specifics.”

It’s what he’s expecting, so the words are no surprise. Laurent’s presence is more of a reminder than an opportunity to pry for information, anyway.

Still, he pays for the Councilman’s lunch. A bit of goodwill goes a long way.

 

* * *

 

Laurent has it timed perfectly: Kastor’s behind the register while he idly browses ingredients. Damen is nowhere to be found, probably off galavanting with his familiar or uncouth friends. The agents of the Council that flood the apothecary are determined, wands out in preparation of defiance. 

They’re quick to announce the charges: disobeying Artes law by selling restricted potion and spell ingredients without verified prescriptions is illegal, and the amounts that have gone missing from Akielos’ supply have not been negligible.   
  
In the commotion of Kastor’s resistance and the reveal of the magic-dampening irons that will be clamped around his wrists, it takes almost no effort for Laurent to withdraw a small silver blade and nick Kastor’s arm when it flails out of the way of the restraints. There are more agents than he’d been expecting, which means he has to work harder to go unnoticed. He only manages to harvest a few drops of blood in the palm of his hand, but it’s enough.

With Kastor’s blood, his spell is complete. The magic he’s poured into the curse will give Laurent the evidence he requires to implicate his uncle. Kastor will be bound to his will, and Laurent can’t resist the triumphant smile that unfurls as he slips quietly out of Akielos.

He’ll confess all.

 

* * *

 

Laurent has been meticulous about every detail of executing his plan, and seeing it come to fruition fills him with the satisfaction he’s been craving for what’s felt like decades. Kastor bears the burden of his curse now, compelling him to spill truths about supplying Laurent’s uncle with the ingredients needed to craft the memory modification potions. He’s surprised to learn that Kastor had also played a role in the late Councilman’s death. His uncle must have gotten sloppy — enlisting Kastor’s help to commit treasonous murder was not one of his better moves, and has entrapped him even further.

He’s won. Nicaise is safe, hidden away in a safe house warded from prying eyes and thoughts until the trials are through. (The fact that he's commandeered Laurent's Switch and played an unfathomable amount of hours of the newest Zelda game is a feat within itself, Laurent thinks.) Auguste’s fury has been a welcome balm, soothing the hurt he’s been nursing since he was too young. For now, he remains ignorant of just how far his uncle’s corruption runs, though Laurent’s good luck in that department is sure to burn up any moment. 

With his uncle behind bars, pending the fullest extent of the law, Laurent has played his role flawlessly. It’s officially a closed chapter on his life, and the sheer sense of _relief_ Laurent feels is enough to feel like he can finally begin moving forward.

He wasn’t counting on Damen’s need for confrontation.

There should be no reason for him to approach the bookstore, though that doesn’t make his presence any less… present. Laurent supposes he deserves this fight, though. To betray Damen, to orchestrate his brother’s arrest — there’s bad blood there, and not only in the figurative way. 

Laurent grasps the bundle of herbs he’s been saving in his pocket should Council officers come to speak with him about his uncle, and mutters a spell under his breath. The sharp burn of magic straightens his spine like a rod’s been shoved through it. False confidence washes over him, and he knows the inevitable rebound will be brutal, but it stills the fine tremor in his hands.

“Hi,” Damen says from the entryway. He sounds calm, though it’s belied by the way he bumps clumsily into a nearby stack of books. With a careful wave of his hand, they’re restacked before they hit the floor.

“How can I help you?” Laurent asks in a poor parody of good customer service. Perhaps this won’t be the confrontation he’s expecting. Maybe Damen just needs a new spellbook, and had been hoping Auguste was on-shift this morning. The sooner this conversation is over with, the sooner he can go back to convincing himself that he doesn’t miss the gargantuan fool looking sheepish in front of him.

Damen appears as though he’s unsure how to answer Laurent’s query. “Do you — uh, do you have a moment?”

Laurent looks blandly around his very empty store. It’s two pm on a Wednesday. Business isn’t exactly booming.

“It’s always surprised me that Auguste lets you work the front,” he says lightly. 

Abruptly, Laurent can’t handle this anymore. Sharply, he asks, “What is it that you expect to get out of coming here?” 

Damen suddenly looks more determined and less pathetically lost. “I want to understand what you were doing with — with me. With us.”

He looks so demanding, like this. As though Laurent _owes_ him something. “I was using you. You seemed to understand that quickly enough.”

“No,” Damen says, the word bursting out of his throat like a swear. A promise. “The Council linked every missing ingredient back to Kastor, and when we checked the ward echoes, they confirmed it. You never stole anything.”

Something sours in Laurent’s stomach. He can’t have Damen poking around, investigating too closely, lest he uncover something the Council will also find —

But neither can he confess to his orchestration of Kastor’s arrest — to do so, even in a supposedly empty store whose very foundations belong to Laurent’s blood and being, would be far too great of a risk —

He’s much quieter when he asks again, “What is it that you expect to get out of coming here?”

“You,” Damen responds immediately, helplessly. “You left me, hurt and betrayed, and then I find out in the midst of my _brother_ conspiring to — to murder and help supply a monster of a man with restricted ingredients to commit sins that the Council condemns with _death_ — that you never actually wronged me? But you still stayed away, and you look… awful. Like you haven’t slept or had a decent meal in weeks. Laurent, please. Tell me what’s going on.”

Laurent is weak. He thought he’d cut Damen out of his flesh like a festering wound, but it appears that he underestimated the man’s toxicity. The poison’s been running through his veins for months. “Suppose you knew, with deadly certainty, that someone was capable of… that. And it takes years of biding your time, waiting for them to slip up enough for you to find enough evidence that he’s been — experimenting with memory potions, to keep the bodies _and_ the minds of his victims young — but they do. They fuck up, and you  _know_ they did _._ What would you do?”

“Anything it took to take him down,” Damen says, before jerking like he’s been hit. “You—”

“Did what needed to be done,” Laurent interrupts. He does not need to hear the pity in Damen’s voice as he realizes what Laurent has kept from the rest of the world.

“I’ve never seen Kastor so eager to give up his secrets.” He can tell from the glint in Damen's eyes what's coming. If Damen turns him in, Laurent supposes it was all still worth it. “But he… I was there. As soon as I learned about the arrest, I made sure I was with him because I couldn’t believe it. He told them _everything,_ and seemed so pleased to do it. I thought it was just so he could lessen his sentence, but that wasn't it, was it?"

Laurent waves a mocking hand in the air. “I’ve always been rather talented with magic. Even you complimented my enchanting, didn’t you?”

Blood magic isn’t just a crime punishable by excommunication or stripping of magic. It’s a death sentence if you’re caught, and Laurent's essentially confirmed it in the face of a man he's scorned.

His own blood sings of the betrayal of Laurent's confession, burning a path underneath his skin.

Rather than show his disgust, his condemnation of what Laurent’s done, Damen asks, “So it was that easy?”

Laurent thinks about the days he’ll never remember, of the strain on his very _soul_ as the blood curse drained his magic, of Nicaise’s too-young body for a teenager of seventeen. The words spill out of him like he’s been compelled himself.

“Easy,” he says softly. Venomously. He has some poison of his own. “Easy. I’ve done everything — _sacrificed_ everything _._ I’ve hidden truths from the only family member who has ever loved me unconditionally, suffering for _years_ while breaking my own heart in the process, risking _death_ practicing blood magic for this. Don’t you _dare_ tell me that this was easy.”

“I’m sorry,” Damen says, and it sounds so genuine that the dark pressure building within Laurent’s ribcage dissipates almost immediately. It’s impossible to maintain his anger when Damen looks like that, so vulnerably apologetic. “I never meant to belittle what you’ve gone through. You’re incredible, Laurent. What you’ve done. I don’t know what I can possibly say to show you that you’ve done enough, that’s out of your hands now and you're safe.”

Laurent knows that; it’s just much more difficult to convince his instincts that the danger has passed and he can finally _relax._  He nods, eyes burning, and can’t help but look away from Damen’s too-earnest gaze. There's nothing Damen  _can_ do, now.

Except of course he was practically made to break Laurent's hypotheses and upend him entirely. “But… about breaking your own heart. Maybe I can help with that, if nothing else?”


End file.
